


Wicked Games

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Innocence, So wrong and feels so right, Torn Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of dirty talk and no real plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Games

“Wicked girl,” he’s murmuring against her neck. Sansa wants to protest these words, though when she opens her mouth nothing comes out but a sharp, pleased sigh. Her face flushes, though from shame or arousal she can’t quite tell.

It’s not as if she didn’t expect this type of reaction from him. She’d been playing the alluring widow all night, fresh out of her weeds and richly dressed. It felt good to be alive again, and if she flirted with a few of the young lords what of it? It’s not as if she didn’t enjoy their attentions. But nothing felt as good as Petyr’s eyes on her all evening. At least, not until she felt she hands on her skin, leading her out of the stifling hall into this cool and deserted corridor. 

Darkness surrounds them, which seems more than fitting. She enjoys these acts, and especially this secrecy, far more than she knew she should, but it’s an enjoyment that seems best experienced away from prying eyes. And it is surely this unspoken need for denial, this need to play the innocent, that makes provoking him so easy and so rewarding. 

“Am I?” she whispers. Petyr’s hands are at her skirts, pushing them up. The cool air feels good against her legs, sheathed only in thin stockings despite the press of winter all around. She’s glad she didn’t go with wool—the heat of the dinning room was more than she expected, and the thickened material would have deadened Petyr’s touch. 

He pulls back and she can see his eyes shining in the dark. He’s clever and more than a little drunk, and the sight of it suddenly makes her giddy. Her skin feels flush but she can’t help herself from pulling him close. He has her pressed against the wall, the stones hard and cold at her back, and despite the pinned position she feels a surge of power run through her. It’s absurd, but she knows it’s real. 

He laughs, low in his throat, and starts to play with the laces at the front of her bodice. Sansa is breathing heavily, trying her best to keep silent, knowing how things in the Vale echo, how you never know who is listening. 

Petyr doesn’t seem to be too concerned with this. Even in the dark she can see his wicked grin, just before he rips at her bodice, exposing one breast to the cold.

She gasps and then lets out a half-strangled moan as he cups the soft flesh in one hand, squeezing slightly, admiring. She can feel the blood in her cheeks and can’t quite stop herself from wrapping one leg around him, pressing herself against him. She can tell how hard he is through his breeches, and a sense of exhilaration runs through her. She moans a bit too loudly as his lips make their way to her breast.

He smiles against her skin. She thinks about how she had been picturing this moment all night, how she could feel herself grow slick as she fantasized about what exactly would happen once he got her alone. The filthiness of the act somehow makes it better, a fact that she never really lingers on for very long. Though she wonders if it has something to do with being able to put such a clever man in such a vulnerable position. 

Petyr brings his lips back to her neck, his hand replacing his mouth, finger pinching at her nipple until she whimpers. She’s almost uncomfortable in wetness, had been all evening. It’s shameful, really, though it can’t be helped.

“Do you enjoy playing the slut?” he murmurs into her neck, and she bites her lip to keep quiet. When he slides a hand up her leg to tease her she digs her nails into his sides in response. 

“You certainly aren’t complaining.” It’s an oddly articulate response, considering the situation, and he responds by slowly sliding a finger into her. She buries her head in his shoulder in response, biting down on the soft velvet of his sleeve. 

“My dear, I’m not the one who was practically begging for it.” He slides his finger up to the second knuckle. It’s not enough; he’s teasing her, provoking her the same way she was provoking him at dinner. “I could smell your desire before we were even out of the room. It was all I could do not to turn your skirts up then and there. What am I supposed to do with you?”

In response she presses against his hand, trying to take him deeper. It’s no substitute for his cock—and even with that thought, her toes curl with the memory of being filled, truly filled by him—but the openness of their actions, her dress half ripped, the hardness of his body and the wall, heightens it all. 

“Will you have to punish me?” she asks, trying to make her voice as innocent as she can. The thought of his hand smacking her bare flesh, of loose ties around her wrists, of the strange feeling of power that comes with submission—it’s all too much, and she can’t help herself from panting. 

Petyr’s eyes flash in the dark. He presses one of her hands against his straining cock, though he didn’t need to guide her there. “Would you like that? Stripped bare and punished like some filthy common girl?” He starts to massage her clit, his other hand undoing the laces of his breeches. His words are a bit rushed and breathless and she can tell that he’s enjoying that fantasy as much as she is. 

His cock is free and she wraps her fingers around it, relishing the familiar weight in her hand, the way he pushes instinctively into her grip. She can tease him just as well as he can her and she keeps a loose grip on him, not giving him as much friction as she can tell he wants. 

In response he slides a third finger inside her, his thumb still pressed against her clit, and she rocks against his hand. He kisses her roughly and speaks against her lips, “When I give you your crown I’ll fuck you on the throne. Would you like that?”

She squeezes slightly and notes the way his eyes flicker closed. “I need to be Queen first.”

“You will.” It’s a promise he makes her almost every night, and one she believes. If she can make anyone to do this for her, it’s Petyr. 

“But I’m not Queen unless I can charm them, am I?” She means the lords she’s been playing all night. They need their support, and if they can fool them into thinking she might concede to marry one of them, then their path is clear.

“Charm yes. But no more” His other hand is back at her breast, lightly tracing around the peaked nipple. Her skin pricks in response to his touch in a way it never did with Harry. It’s the illicitness, she thinks, that makes it feel so good, and she wonders if there’s not some truth in the things he whispers in her ear during moments like this. _Wicked, so very wicked._

“Oh, of course.” She pulls at his cock once more and his breath grows more and more ragged. “I’m the very picture of innocence.” 

Petyr laughs, a bit louder than is perhaps advisable, and picks up the speed of his fingers. “Oh sweetling. You’re almost too good at this.”

She thinks about how the old Sansa Stark never would have taken pleasure in such a phrase. That girl seems so long gone now and so much has changed since then. Sansa thinks again of Petyr and Littlefinger, and how freeing it almost is to have this mask of sweetness and innocence. It certainly heightens moments like this one. 

His pace has picked up again and she can’t speak. She merely rests her face against his neck, her hands stroking his cock in time with his fingers, listening to him say what a filthily girl she is and what would happen if their guests found them this way. 

“Such a sight,” he says with just a slight cluck of his tongue. “I may need to take you over my knee when this is through, teach you a lesson about modesty.” 

She whimpers into his shoulder, remembering how it feels to be in that position or bent over his desk, his hand reddening her flesh, his voice teasing when he inevitably sees how wet she becomes. There’s something to be said for the pleasure found in that kind of pain, of knowing that whatever power he has over her is trumped only by the power she has over him. 

It’s that thought—of the way he looks up at her when she’s on top, the way she can make him come with only a slight intake of breath—that causes her to climax, biting down on his shoulder to muffle her cries. She’s still collecting herself in that position, trembling from the aftershocks, when she feels him spill his seed into her palm.

They remain like this for some time before pulling away, though she presses herself against the wall for support, her legs a bit weak. Petyr seems only slightly disheveled, which makes the filthiness of their act even more apparent. _Everything is a paradox._ He smiles at her again before bringing his fingers to his mouth, clearly savoring the taste of her.

He helps her cover herself up enough to get back to her chambers. Her stockings had ripped some time during the act, and she thinks about how she will hide them from her maid. The last act is to wipe her hand clean with a silken handkerchief, and the symbolism almost makes her burst out laughing. 

Petyr kisses her sweetly when he is done and bids her goodnight. Sansa pauses for a moment to gather her composure, proud of how smoothly she falls back into place.


End file.
